True Son's and Daughters
by Valexian rose
Summary: Love can blossom in even the strangest places, and when the heart of a young imperial spit-fire is caught by a stormcloak brute, stranger things happen. And the meaning of star crossed is set into play when they meet. Takes place during the Civil War. Rated for a reason, Skyrim is insane.
1. Chapter 1

Marching, or more so running, his troops circled Fort Dunstad in a slow but steady pace. Their fur and leather boots turning the snow to mush as they retraced the track around the walls. To him, the sound was procedure, something they needed to get lost in. Though the shouts from the lead broke any tranquil state they were in, he hopped that they would find it soothing; even though they were nothing but young boys, he knew they would be great soldiers. He sighed, turning on heel and crossing his meaty arms over his bold chest. The cold biting at his bare arms and face. But he was a nord, a proud one at that, and the cold winds of northern Skyrim did nothing to phase him. His steel spiked boots coming down hard against the thin layer of snow atop the stone wall. He paced, looking down at the yard with calculating moss eyes.

The archers could use steadier aim, and the warriors could put more effort into their swings, but they were battle ready. He paused, glancing between two soldiers, they were bickering, no doubt about something childish. With a deep sigh he turned east and jumped onto a wooden platform below him. Then he crashed dramatically to the ground, making a noticeable thud pull the archers attention. Several looked at his tall imposing form with awe, at his broad shoulders wrapped in black bear pelt, lined with steel claws down to his gauntlets. One of them spoke, "General," Effectively making the others stop shooting. The thud of arrows piercing hay ceazed as he approached the two squabbling boys. He stood there in silence, watching them push at each other and throw insults into the crisp air. That was, until one of them threw a punch.

He was on them faster than a wolf on a rabbit, his hand gripping the assaulters wrist with enough might to almost crush his wrist, and the other was caught withering under his glare. Silence overtook most of the camp, and all eyes were on him as he spoke, deep, slow, and to the point, "What is the meaning of this?" He demanded, no one dared to answer. A frown claimed his lips, "You two are bickering in the midst of training, when there is a war waging not a wink outside these walls?" He let the one boy go, turning his gaze back and forth between the two, "You think that bickering with your enemy like a child will stop them from shoving a sword through your chest?" They both looked down, ashamed of their behavior. He huffed, obviously having more to say to them, but settled for finishing the matter, "What are your names?" They didn't speak, he smirked inwardly, in him, the tension was gone, and he sought to mess with them further. One kicked at the snow idly while the other stood frozen, "Well?" He pressed, a mischievous glint passing over his eyes,

"Gundger," One said, the frozen one he noted.

"And?" He looked to the other,

"Jorn," The young man admitted,

"Well then, any dispute you have with your brother in arms can stay in your mind until a piece of Imperial scum stands in front of you," He said, harsher than most, but they needed to understand that the world wasn't a playground when people were trying to kill you. "For now, all you can do is train until that day," He said to the both of them before turning to the rest of the yard, "That goes to all of you, train as if your lives depend on it, because they do! There is no room for any milk drinker here! Prove to me and to all of Skyrim that you a true son, a true daughter to the land!" He bellowed, getting most of them into higher spirits as they began to stand at attention.

He waved them off and left for the stairway to the wall again, as to oversee the training process. However, a man can only get so far before being interrupted, one of his fastest couriers ran up to him, slightly fatigued and solemn faced. The woman looked up at him, words dying on her lips as she had run from Windhelm. The general bit his lip and pressed his hand to her shoulder, leading her to the small house at the other end of the compound. Once they were inside, the woman wasted no time in taking a seat and a plate of food. He sat across from her, leaning against the table with his forearms.

She took in her general, as it had been three days since their last meet, and that was at the camp north of them. His eyes still held higher spirits than most, the set moss green color seeping into her skin. His dark hair a tad longer past his ears, and his goatee still residing on his chin. "What news do you bring Senna?" He asked, his voice much lower and quieter than from the court. The woman in question pulled over her satchel, grabbing the two letters for him. "A friend's regard from Riften, and a letter from Ulfric himself, he said to deliver it with great haste," She explained, handing him the scroll and slip of paper.

He slid the scroll from her hand and broke the wax seal, opening it his eyes scanned the paper, taking in the fine ink scratches. He recognized Jorlifs hand writing, but it was from Galmar. He furrowed his brow in frustration, setting the paper down and closing his eyes. He sighed slowly, deeply, before standing and grabbing a slip of paper and something to write with. He settled for charcoal and began writing. "What did it say?" Senna asked, pushing her thick black hair over one shoulder. "Ulfric wants me to march on Fort Greymoor within a weeks time, it seems my men will need to be more battle ready than they are,"

"Greymoor, west of Whiterun? Does he plan an attack?" She asked with partial awe and horror. She knew people there, and the last thing she wanted was for them to feel the fire of the Stormcloaks. "That is not my place to tell Senna," He said, he folded the paper in half, not bothering to be fancy much like Ulfric's steward. "I need you to bring this to him," The dark haired general rasped, not feeling the fire of the call of battle. He was not willing to drive his men into a storm of arrows and death, he knew quite well how heavily defended the fort was. Senna pursed her lips into a thin line, not happy with his answer, none the less however, she stood taking a few more gulps from her mead, before turning swiftly for the door.

He rubbed his eyes as the wooden door slammed shut, with a heavy sigh he stood again and made way for the cold outside. The drills needed to be switched up, and for that, he needed to consult his brothers in arms. With the news of death on his shoulders he made his way to the keep, heavy footed he marched into the building, gathering Harem and Soleen, noting that Sidger was missing, again. They settled at a war table, a debate running mad through the air as the bow master and shield barron bickered. The general found himself correcting the both of them on many points, his voice stern as he proposed ideas not only for training, but for the assault on the keep.

Planning went on till dawn, leaving the three soldiers tired and at a loss for words, with a little bit of a plan agreed upon for training. The whelps would start sparring with each other, leaning the strengths and weaknesses of their foes and friends. The archers would begin learning how to use a dagger in a tight spot, as a bow might not always be useful. Intensive training would start for all groups, as the scouts would have to learn to defend themselves, or become reconnaissance if need be. The general noted that he would need a word with Sidger and his wing once he was found, fearing infiltration may be needed.

Once the meeting was done, the general rose to his feet, weariness claiming his muscles. Soleen looked up at him, her amber eyes flashing with concern, "Tristan, are you alright?"

"Is a man ever alright if he knows he will be responsible for the death of too many young men and women?" He ran a hand through his black locks, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he thought. Soleen looked down at her hands, her blonde braid falling down her shoulder, "Goodnight sir," She said boldly before returning to her own cot. She swore her men would be ready, she just hoped that the rat named Sidger would show his face soon, they needed him more than she would like to admit.

 **So this is a story about two oc characters, it is a developing romance and can get pretty intense. None the less enjoy.**


	2. Chapter 2

She had been at Fort Greymoor for only three days, and the men either hated her, or struggled to swoon her. But like any nord woman would, she shut them up with a swift punch to the face. Legate Rikke seemed to take great pride in knowing that she trained one of the best, but the best also got sent to the most dangerous places. Setting a young woman at the title of Tribune, she and a large number of Imperial troops guarded Whiterun holds west flank, the pentagon of stone walls sitting perfectly atop a small hill in the planes. While the men she worked with were a pain in her arse, she valued the area she was placed in. The watchtower to the east of Greymoor held a valuable vantage point over the flat land, and she trusted the guards to send word of trouble if there was any.

The woman stood atop the stairs in front of the keep, watching as men and women alike walked the walls in constant vigilance over the surrounding area. To be honest, it was mainly a power location, showing Balgruuf that the Imperials were at his city, but at the same time protecting it. However much to the nord woman's dismay, the only skirmish that happened in the three days that she had been there was with a Giant, one that proved to be no match against her or her men. Even as the night air brushed against her slightly tanned skin, she found herself getting bored with the lack of battle, or, anything really. The whinnying of a horse drew her from her boredom cloud. Her eyes locked on two figures and a black mare. Her, black mare, and they were trying to take her.

The nord woman unsheathed her dagger and stalked up to them, silent, brooding anger seeping out through her very skin. She stopped a few feet behind them, deciding that she would have some fun, after all, she would need to find out if they were her men or bandits. Oddly she wished they were bandits, so she could mess with them further. She watched their feeble attempts at calming the feisty mare down. She was so skittish that the farmers who owned her were thinking of getting rid of her in a few days time, that was of course, before the nord woman collapsed on their doorstep. As payment for her staying there, she would help around the farm, the black mare took an odd liking to her, and she instantly got her.

Now here they were, fury matched and rivaled on both sides, these men didn't stand a chance. A smirk graced her full lips and she spoke, "Trying to steal a horse now are you? Meer bandit play, I should think you were more than that boys," The both of them froze at her authoritative tone, the way her honey smooth voice rode through them on a higher level of passive aggression. They turned to look at the source of the voice, and saw nothing but shadow. They exchanged glances and noticed that the horse had calmed down significantly. One of the men reached out for the reigns, but the whistle of wind shrieked through their heads. Suddenly the man's hand was cut open, from wrist to little finger. He cursed and flailed enraged at the searing bubbling pain. The other looked to where the knife was supposed to be lodged, but saw it was gone. "Oh come now, haven't you boys ever played hide and seak?"

"Come out bitch, or I'll gut you like a fish!" One snarled, reaching to draw his sword,

"Alright, fair game it is then, but you have to find me first," She taunted. The one she skimmed drew his sword and stomped furiously out into the yard. She walked out into the dim torch light and crossed her arms, "What business do you have here, bandit?" She hissed, knowing this fight would be easy, he spotted her and yowled with anger. She narrowed her amber eyes and a frown curled her lips. He closed the gap and swung down, she sidestepped and kept her arms crossed. He swung left, for her torso, she ducked and smirked, finding all the flaws in his form and aim. Then suddenly he spun backwards and skimmed her armor as she rolled back. He swung to her left at a downwards angle, she grabbed her other dagger and stopped his sword, hitting him in the gut with the butt of the other. He stumbled, glaring at her as she straightened and stood at full height, her glare burning into him like a deep cut.

He jerked his sword forward as to run her through, she caught his blade again and tilted it up. Stepping closer to him with more speed than imaginable, she hooked her blade at the guard of his sword and ripped it from his grasp, tossing it and sticking it to the ground. When she noticed the awe and horror on his face she tilted her head and drove her dagger into his gut, he sputtered and struggled to shove her off. His blood sticky and warm on her hands, she etched the dagger up, looking at him, at how the life left his eyes.

She stopped at the bottom of his ribcage before pulling out her blade. He gurgled and fell to his knees, his hands desperately trying to hold his gushing life in. She mumbled softly, almost like a coo into the air, "Who's gutted who now?" The sound of shuffling broke her savage moment and her eyes locked on the other hooded figure, the mare dug at the ground idly with her massive hoof as her nord rider walked up to the fallen figure. She ripped off his hood and instantly recognized the blue eyes, followed by the rusted brown hair. "Ronan," She said, his eyes widening, "What did you hope to gain? Bandits, honestly, I thought you were better than that," Quickly she hooked her fingers in the kinks of his armored shirt, ripping him off his feet and dragging him to the other side of the yard, ignoring his protests and pleas for mercy.

Roughly she shoved him against a target and pinned him there by his armor with her daggers, finding some rope nearby, she tied him to the archery target and marveled at the sight of him squirming. She wasn't sadistic, but she knew when someone needed to be punished, as she turned to walk back into the keep her daggers in hand she heard him yell, "No please! The wolves will get me! Don't leave me here!" She paused and turned on heel, looking him in the eye, "Bandits deserve to die by a wolf, as they are the scum of Nirn, but you were an Imperial soldier once," She paused, noticing the sky start to clear as dawn would surely come soon, "Tomorrow, at noon, you will die by arrow head by your once comrades, as you deserve no more and no less, I'll send my condolences to your family Ronan," She walked to the keep door, noting his silence.

She walked through the door and closed it behind her, walking to a basin and washing her hands off, then running a hand through her wavy auburn hair. She sighed and braided her hair back, tying it before waking a few soldiers up, as training would resume just before dawn. She kicked their boots every once and a while but shook most of them up, walking towards the back of the keep waking a few more up before seeking her own quarters, sleep threatening her bones, she needed sleep, but she also had duties to carry out. Coming up to a hallway to get to the armory, which happened to be next to the prison. After all, the fort wasn't made to defend, it was a prison before anything.

She opened the door to the kitchen and grabbed an apple for breakfast, she bit into it before opening another to the hall, coming face to face with a soldier, she opened her mouth to apologize but noticed the blue warpaint. Noticed the war hammer on his back, noticed the blue armor he wore. Her eyes flickered to the many soldiers like him trailing behind, with a yell she broke the frozen awkward air, she brought her apple down on his head, smashing the fruit to bits and making him stumble against the wall, he cursed as she cried out at the top of her lungs, "Stormcloaks!" She spun on heel and slammed the door shut, flipping a table to block the door as she ran out to get her men prepared.

She ran hard and as fast as she could, into the main barracks, only to meet the narrow swing of a sword. She dropped to her knees in record time and swung her dagger up as she noticed how much the blue grey sea had flooded the room. The keep was under attack, no doubt to go after Whiterun next. The Stormcloak she killed fell and she rose, dancing around swings and slashes she watched in horror as her weary men were cut down. With a new found fury, her daggers began to ebb and flow in one swift motion, turning into a flury of sharp edges and the end of your life. She cut down three men and women from the Stormcloaks before a boot to the gut knocked her through the keep door. She was tossed out into the rising morning to the smell of blood and the sound of death and cries. Eyes wide she pushed herself to her feet, gripping her daggers as she caught her breath. They were flanked, and short of men, losing fast, the realization hit her like a bucking horse. She ran cutting down anyone in her way, effectively saving a few of her men as she made her way to the stables. The archers above struggling to make clean hits through everything, having arrows fired at them as well. She found her black mare, Sasha, and hopped on with ease, slamming her heels into her steed she grabbed an archer and pulled him up behind her. Bow drawn and arrow pulled back as she made her way for the Western watchtower.

She didn't get far however, because her archer was shot with an arrow, and shortly after, she was ripped off her horse. Her back hit the stone road hard, she bounced slightly and almost layed there. And she would have, if not for the bear headed war hammer swinging down for her face, she rolled. Shoving herself to her feet, she slapped her horse to make her run, the nord woman turned, daggers drawn in both hands, she stepped back as he stepped forward.

He was a bear of a man, a complement as the black pelt was draped over his shoulders. She took in the clawed gauntlets and boots, the way he held himself. He had dark hair, and green eyes, and he was built to easily kill a man. She was faced with a Stormcloak general, and fear licked at her fingers. She gritted her teeth and snarled, bringing up her blades and rushing him, licking at his belly as he tried to grab her. She jumped and brought her blade down to his shoulder, the steel not letting up, and leaving her in a vulnerable place. He shoved her, knocking her back to the ground hard, forcing her to do an analysis on him, she would surely die if she wasn't careful. She wet her lips and looked at the relaxed taught yet posture, he was ready to be fluid but hit hard. She stood and regained her bearings, noticing how he took heavy steps towards her.

She swayed a little with each step around him, giving the impression that she was weaker. She noticed how he covered his sides, just under his ribs, with his arms, he tensed up and gripped the war hammer harder. She needed to get closer, but he was quicker with his hands than with that weapon, and for that she needed to get rid of the claws. He swung to the left, she ducked and tried to get close, but she earned a knee to her side instead. She winced, taking note to avoid that as well, she danced around him, dodging his blows, not attacking. Then suddenly he jabbed at her, rushing her again, she swung and lodged her blade into his side, he hissed and cursed, knocking the grip of his war hammer into her. She stumbled, and he did it again, but this time she grabbed the hilt of it and made a swipe at his face, she skimmed his cheek and he backed away from her.

He growled as he pulled out the dagger in his side, blood seeping from the wound, when he lifted his arm to throw the thing she ran and slammed into him, shoving him back with impressive force, she threw a punch and landed it on his jaw. Then she pivoted and spun, kicking him in the gut with all her might. He fell, trying to get up, but her heel stopped him as she kicked him in his wounded side, he yelled profanities at her and threw a punch himself. Narrowly missing her, the steel bear claws skimming her eyebrow. He went to shove her off of him, her daggers dangerously close to his throat, but one swift punch put him out. She poised a dagger up, threatening to bring it down, but he didn't move. She waited, sitting on her knees above him, waiting for him to move, as pretending to be done was surely a trick. One hit like that couldn't have knocked him out.

When she saw there was no response but his shallow breathing, she sighed and rolled off of him, panting and assessing the damage done, he cracked one or two of her ribs for sure, and she would be bruised to the bone for a while no doubt. With a wince she sat up, sheathing her daggers, She cried out, "Sasha!" Questioning just how far the mare had run, to her ease, the sound of metal shoed hooves beating against the stone road filled her ears. The black horse strode over and stopped in front of her, huffing at the Stormcloak general that lay on the earth. The question itching at her bones as of what to do with him. The horse looked between the two and then nudged her rider. The nord woman gripped the harness and pulled herself to her feet, she eyed his weapon, and the wound still seeping with his crimson life. She looked in the bag on her horse and pulled out some thin cloth.

Begrudgingly she removed some of his armor and wrapped him up, almost satisfied at the ammount of damage she managed to inflict. Almost. She pulled off his gauntlets and tied his hands, she strapped in his armor and weapon to her horse, and then there was the matter of getting him on the beast. After a while of unnecessary struggling with getting her mare to comply, they rode slowly back to the fort, the sight she returned to pleased her.

Her men stood at attention, and a row of a few prisoners sat at their knees, hands tied, and over all looking rough. Her men looked at her in awe, at the sight of the man behind her, and how beat down she looked. She woe'd her steed and hopped off, requesting help with the general. Noticing how some of the captives bristled at the sight of his wound. Silently she watched as they placed him down gentler than she guessed they did with the others. Then she lead her horse to the stables, taking the armor and weapon from her mare, the nord woman walked over to the prisoners, placing down the armor down a bit far from them, she looked at three of her men, "Duncan, Lucien, Erien, go get some water and food for them, good food, and some potions and mead if you can,"

"But-" Duncan tried,

"Now, soldier," She said firmly, they scurried into the keep. Then she spoke, "My name is Nichole, I am the second to Legate Rikke in Solitude. No doubt you were ordered to take Greymoor to further pressure Whiterun?" She was met with silence, she noticed the girl in light armor, she had light blonde hair that fell in messy tendrils over her face. Nichole walked over to her and kneeled down to her level, "What's your name?"

"Why should I tell you bitch?" The amber eyed fury raised an eyebrow,

"I'm not going to ask again," She growled, low, venomously,

"To oblivion with you, Imperial rat," The blonde hissed, then suddenly the Imperial nord gripped the blondes hair, pulling her to her feet as she screeched. Paying attention to how the woman held herself she shoved her out in the open, allowing her to stumble, showing that she favored her right leg. "Listen to me archer, I don't have to be your friend, so make this easy for all of us, what is your name?" She demanded coldly,

"Fuck you," The blonde hissed, then her head cocked back, and a sound escaped her throat the woman fell to the floor, moaning in pain at the impact. People gasped and Nichole clenched her fist tighter, "Next one won't be so light, you have three broken ribs and your left leg is about to snap, would you like me to make that happen?" The blonde held herself and sent an icy glare, "Well?" The other woman asked,

"No," The blonde mumbled, closing her brown eyes. Then she was pulled to her feet, she yelped and hissed, "My name is Soleen!" She cried, as the auburn beauty pressed her fingers into one of her ribs. Then suddenly, her hands were gentle, and guiding her to sit down on the steps. Soleen looked at her in a bewildered awe, still cradling her ribs. Nichole walked over to the others, stopping in front of a greasy brown haired man, blue eyes, and a sly smirk. "Do I have to ask?" The woman said to him,

"Sidger," Said the sleazy man, she frowned slightly, a scowl returning to her face. The next man was like a saber cat, his beard hugged his face in short curly dirty blonde locks. His eyes were kind, but he could probably kill her just with a hug. "And yours?" She said softly,

"Harem," He said to her, his voice deep and burly, loud too. She offered a smile and then her eyes fell on the man she fought, worry creased her thoughts. Then she opened her mouth, "And him, what's his name?" Her voice faltering, it was almost noon, and she had taken a beating harder than she thought she would. "Tristan," Harem said, then Duncan, Erien, and Lucien walked out, plates and bowls and bags of mead and potions in hand. She smiled and thanked the boys, giving everyone an equal amount of food and water. Mixing in some healing commodities as they fed and drank. She and another soldier using the alcohol to tend to wounds.

When she got to the general she wondered if it was wise to wake him up while she changed the bandages, she decided against it. Getting some clothes for them all to change into, she unwrapped his wound, frowning at how bad it looked. She poured alcohol on it, and he shot up, forcing more blood out, she cursed frustrated and pushed him back down, his hands dug into her arms as her health potion lubricated hands massaged and worked into the wound. Soon his hissing died down and he simply glared at her. She wrapped him up with new cloth, then gave him some food.

He didn't release her however, so she paused and looked at him, her amber red eyes locking with this moss green eyes. "I am well aware of how easily you could break my arm, and if that is what you wish to do, then do it," She said softly, boldly, still loud enough for all of them to hear. "Why are we here?" He demanded, and she couldn't stop her eyes from widening, his voice deep yet soothing, not fit to yell but to laugh. Her lips parted for words but she was caught up, then she said, "You're a general for Ulfric Stormcloak, under direct orders to take this fort, you must know quite a bit, so you and your circle are going to Solitude."

He gripped her arms harder, and she resisted the urge to wince, he would surely leave bruises. His eyes taking in the way her jaw clenched, her eyebrows drew together slowly, at the cut across her forehead. At her fire like eyes, and then suddenly he released her. She stood up slowly, turning to her men, "Get a cart ready, and a small selection of men, we set off for Solitude today."


	3. Chapter 3

He sat in the back of the carriage, his hands bound and his libido ruined. He sent almost glares at the nord woman on the black horse, and to which she barely acknowledged. He was told that her name was Nichole, and what her position was, that she had beat Soleen into submission with only one hit. Which was something, because that girl was stubborner than an ox. Again, this made him eye the Tribune, her sloped posture, the scowl on her face. Unbeknownst to him, she noticed how a sly smirk would grace his lips at her, which in turn would make her frown more, which would then make him smile bigger. With a huff she glared at him, her eyes like daggers burning his skin, "If you're going to stare and smile at me, at least wave," She mocked, the smile on his face dropped and was replaced by his own scowl. To further unsettle him she smiled tightly and saluted him, he huffed and shook his head, looking away from her and to his feet. His side starting to bother him, he eyed Soleen, who sat across from him, her blue war paint smudged on her fair skin. It didn't take long for him to notice the dark bruise forming on her eye and cheek. "I never thought I'd see the day," He mumbled, the itch to mess with his friends was almost unbearable. Soleen's ice eyes snapped to his face, "What?" She hissed,

"Nothing, the bruise is a good look," He put on a smirk, "That's all,"

"Oh I'll give you a bruise somewhere else you son of a-"

"Hey!" A soldier barked, and suddenly Nichole started laughing,

"What are you laughing at, rat?" Soleen demanded,

"Oh, nothing, it's just," Nichole paused, "He's right," Then she offered a half hearted shrug to the group for her behavior. Earning a malicious glare from the young archer. In the back of her head she noted the time it would be at the stopping point, Rorikstead would be a good stop, but with four of Ulfric's best, it didn't seem like the best idea. Perhaps a mile or so after the town, because by then, it would be dark. And she didn't trust the roads at night, even with some of her men. They were almost at Gjukar's monument, which was the halfway mark for Rorikstead, the Tribune could feel sleep rubbing at her mind, whispering to her, begging her eyes to close. She had been awake and burning energy for longer than a day, and she needed to stop.

It was then that she was unaware of how noticeable her fatigue was, the dark haired and handsome general eyed her swaying form warily. To keep herself awake she started humming, an odd tune, one that the bards were working on. She would admit she spent more time with storytellers and tune players than she did with her brothers and sisters in arms. She believed it was called a tale of tongues. Her humming soft and quiet, and really only heard by her. But that didn't mean eyes weren't on her, watching how she feigned strength when it was failing her to her fingertips. She gripped the reins to her black mount tighter, the feeling of leather biting at her bare palms. The burning sensation the only thing registering in her mind, pain the only thing driving her to continue on. She was grateful for her loyal steed and even more so that she had valiantly carried her without complaint. Still, Sasha needed a break and a nice meal just as much as any soldier.

Her hands pulled softly on the reigns, and though her voice was weak, her men still heard her, "We stop at Rorikstead tonight, and continue to Dragon Bridge at dawn, rest up, eat well, you need it," The leather clad soldiers stopped at the edge of the small town, carefully separating the prisoners and taking up residence outside the town. Being careful to keep the peace of the farmers. Somehow, she supposed it was because he was the general, Tristan got stuck under her watch. Much to their dismay.

She dismounted from her loyal beast and stroked her neck, tangling her fingers along the short dark hair, a soft thoughtful frown on her face as her eyes followed her hand. Sasha huffed, and shook her mane, turning and shoving her muzzle into the chest of her rider. Nichole inhaled deeply, the smell of animal and earth flooding her senses as she scraped her nails softly at the horse's muzzle. Aware of eyes on her, the woman wrapped up her silent physical conversation with her long time friend. Quickly pressing her forehead to her black mares before turning and looking at the General. Duncan and another, by the name of Folthime, held the nord in place.

Her fingers gripping the reigns softly she lead her horse over to the waiting men and nodded the two soldiers. Dismissing them to set up their own tents for the night or to grab a meal. Nichole stood still, posture stiff and coiled as her gaze locked with Tristans glare. It didn't suit his face, but that didn't keep it from chilling her skin. "You have two options," She began, "You can help me set up a tent for the night without any problems, or you can try to rendezvous with your officers and get killed," His eyes darkened, and a scowl graced his features. Her feet ached beneath her and her body would have settled for sleeping on the cultivated earth she stood on, but she held his glare. Then his gruff response came, "If I am to assist you with your tent, I need to be unbound,"

"I'm not one to make deals, Stormcloak," The woman hissed,

"Then you can do it yourself, if your concern is my attempt at attacking you, you have nothing to worry about,"

"Why's that?"

"I'm no wolf," He growls, "I do not heal miraculously from stab wounds,"

"So it would seem," The Tribune mumbled, pulling out her dagger and stepping closer, grabbing his wrist roughly and sliding the blade with ease through the rope. They lessened and suddenly his hands were on her, her body being whipped around and shoved to the ground, his weight keeping her there as his hands enclosed around her throat. He raised an eyebrow at her, "Thought you were smarter than that," He growled, she only grinned and he felt something smooth and cold slide along his lower stomach. He froze, having forgotten about her other dagger which now sickeningly teased the skin above his manhood. He glared at her with a sort of inhumane fury. She spoke, her voice, though tired, still level and almost sweet in a threatening way, "Before your siege on my keep, I gutted a man for his attempt to steal my horse. What makes you think I was so easy to take down? And what makes you think I won't be rid you of your manhood now?"

"Nothing," He growls, knowing the cost of crossing her was great. The wiry smile that slid over her lips made him tighten his grip on her air pipes, she tensed and taught her blade against his skin, just hardly cutting into the skin below his navel. "Is it really worth your life?" She asked him, vice slightly rough, eyebrows furrowing. She meant her own life, was his attempt at killing her worth his own? He stared at her, mossy eyes now like dark emeralds, "My manhood is not my life," He growled, struggling to ignore the searing heat that slid slowly down from his navel to his abdomen. Her lips were now parted, unlike others she had not bothered to struggle, sparing her a few minutes, "You said so you are not wolf, I doubt you could recover from bleeding out," She paused, drawing in a breath, "Are you aware of the position of my blade?" She asked him, her heart beating rapidly in her chest, she wasn't one to be afraid of death, but she would fight with her body, words, and mind until she could no more.

He stared at her, the feeling on his own life spreading down his skin clouding his judgement. He let her go, stumbling back and off of her as soon as she pressed the blade harder into his skin. She gasped and rolled over, onto her hands and knees she hauled in breath, she had shown resilience against him with her own deadly threat. She got to her feet faster than him, eyeing the blade in the dirt that he had ripped from her. Glancing at the general she kicked her discarded blade up into her hand and sheathed it.

She stepped closer to him and pulled him to his feet, the general wasted no time pulling from her grasp. "Now, Tristan, we've lost time, help me set this up," Eyes widening he watched as her one track mind took her over to her packs on the back of her horse. "You know my name?" He asked, but it was more of a harsh unaccepting statement,

"Harem told me," Nichole answered, unclasping the binds that held down the tarp and bedrolls, "You were not in the condition to do so yourself," Her arms wrapped around the leather and wool of the drapes and rolls and set them down on a flat rock, her eyes adjusting to the setting sun and the dark that began to creep up on the cold land. She stood up and cast a look at the man, "You going to stand there? Or are you going to help me?"

"Why should I help? I'm unbound, and your fatigue weighs your motions down, you may be faster than I, but that has little use when you are not capable of achieving such levels of combat,"

"Listen, Stormcloak," She sneered, "You seem to be much smarter than most of your people, smarter than that man who boasts of unhonorable kills and chases after the throne of High King like a child after a barrel hoop. He is arrogant and foolish and clearly has only a thirst for blood and war. Hundreds of men, women, and children die for the sake of a foolish war. I have no reason to be here, trained to kill and armed to the teeth, beside the fact of my allegiance to the Empire. I am second to Legate Rikke for a reason, and I'm sure you know why that reason is," Her burning amber eyes fell to the line of blood on his shirt, "It is clear that you are a general for the Stormcloaks for a reason, and despite our stances in the war I respect your skill, it rivals mine and vice versa. But now I ask that we shove aside our differences and act as any two great warriors would. We are both tired and evenly matched in skill, and I ask of you respectfully that you aid me in setting up this tent,"

"You are surrendering?" He asked, head tilting to the side slightly and lips curling to a smirk,

"No, I am offering you my hand in a sort of.. peace offering," She said softly, grabbing pikes and ropes from her saddle bags. Hands finding some bandage for him and she turned, hearing the ruffling of cloth and metal, Tristan pulled the tarp from the rock and walked over to a nearby tree, tossing it over a sturdy but low branch. A slight smile graced her lips, and she stalked over, handing him the ropes to secure the tarp and pikes to lock it down. They avoided locking gazes while they worked, the both of them truly skilled and independent, but on the opposite sides of war. That alone was enough to spark another duel, one that they would both pay for. He could tell though, because it was what he was best at, that she held back from unleashing her fury even in the threat of death. The only time she really fought savagely, was against him outside of the Keep. Part of him was curious as to why, because there had to be a reason, but he bit his tongue and kept from asking as they weren't exactly on speaking terms.

The silence between them gave way to excellent progress however, because as soon as it was too dark to see a meter in front of them, they had finished setting up with a small fire going. Now they sat across from each other, lips sealed as Nichole prepared a meal for the both of them. Nothing incredibly special, just rabbit stew and some vegetables that she had somehow thought of packing. Warily he took the wooden bowl from her, eyeing the chunks floating in the steaming brown broth. Taking in his reaction the Tribune grinned at him, "Do be careful, my food is known to bite," She snipped sarcastically at him, "Just try it, I promise it isn't poisoned," She lifted her bowl to her lips and sipped at the simple stew. She wasn't one to care about proper eating habits out in the field, some part of the stormcloak liked that. She acted more nord than what her alliance allowed, he liked that she broke the rules. Any other Imperial wouldn't give a rats ass if he was fed or had a place to sleep. But he also understood that she did it simply because she thought that kind of treatment inhumane. Still, it didn't answer all of his questions, lowering the bowl to his lap he looked at her face, she still hadn't tended to the cut on her brow, and the dried blood looked almost black against her light skin. "You're a nord, aren't you,"

"Why do you ask?" She sighed, her breath hot against the cold night air and she looked at him. "You act like one," He smirked,

"Funny," She growled, staring down at her half empty bowl, "I am, of Nordic blood, yes,"

"Then why side with the imperials?" He asked, a heavy question that could set up an argument,

"I detest war, but I also happen to strongly dislike Ulfric," She answered,

"So you're an elf lover?" He scoffed,

"Every elf but the godsforsaken Aldmeri dominion and their followers," Her eyes hardened into a glare as they landed on his form. "Are you going to eat?" He scowled at her and picked up his bowl, accepting the challenge. Bringing the rim to his lips, he tilted it slightly, allowing the warm savory yet edible broth to coat his tongue. His eyebrows raised as an explosion of real taste flooded his senses. Travel food could never be this good, "You're going to choke," She mumbled at him, watching as he downed half the bowl in a moment. Regardless she smiled and sipped at her own serving. The night continued as such, until it was time to douse the fire and crawl into their bedrolls.

They both sat under the tarp, a lone candle lighting the area dimly. Her hair looking like bronze in the contrast, though it was in a tight braid down her back. "Take off your shirt," She said to him, he only looked at her, a sly smile spreading over his lips, "Well, if you wanted that, all you had to do was say so,"

"Don't be stupid, I almost gutted you, I need to change your bandages. Now take off your shirt before I cut it off, and there are no others for you to don," He glared at her and sighed, struggling slightly with his right side as his wound still bothered him. She got onto her knees and made him do the same, carefully unwrapping the bloodied cloth, her eyes taking in how slow the healing process was. The healing potion had helped close it some, but she would need to reapply the solution to his wound if he was going to live. Leaving for a moment and greeting her horse she pulled a small potion and walked back into the tent. Eyeing Tristan with a concealed interest. Silently she doused her hands in the mixture, gently touching the injured skin and probing the rougher areas tenderly. Her other hand carefully avoiding his lower regions as she healed his abdomen as well.

His eyes didn't leave her for one moment, trained hard on her lowered gaze and indifferent expression. Watching the twitch of her lips before she frowned or how her eyebrows furrowed when she saw something, which made him flinch as her first reaction was to touch the estranged area. The first thing that came to mind regarding her ministrations was her expertise with her hands and fingers. It made him wonder if she had done anything else with her hands other than wield weapons or heal others, or make food or build. Then the matter of healing came to mind, she hadn't payed attention to her own injuries, and that made him scowl at her. She looked up, catching his disapproving gaze before turning back to her work. Missing how his hand reached out and touched her temple, thumb lightly tracing the scratch from the corner of her brow back to her ear, curving from where her brow met her nose. She froze, stilling her fingers as he pressed his palm firmer to her skin.

He spoke, "So much attention on the wrong things,"

"You find my helping you wrong?" She retorted, pulling slightly away from him, he let his hand drop. They looked at each other, herself because she was unsure of the situation. Him because he was thinking of what to say to her. Of course the interactions they had were frowned upon, due to their status they were sworn enemies and both trained to kill the other or die trying. "No," He said, "But have you stopped to think about what you're doing? What it would look like?"

"Yes," She answered without a second thought, grabbing the bandages and wrapping him up without another word. Silently she left him alone to return the things she did not need, returning a bit late after to find him asleep in a roll. She did the same across from him, falling asleep with little difficulty.


End file.
